


Built to Last

by lazarus_girl



Series: Louisville Universe [2]
Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-29
Updated: 2012-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-22 18:22:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/612817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazarus_girl/pseuds/lazarus_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Brittany and Santana struggle to maintain their long distance relationship, Santana returns home to offer Brittany support as she begins to plan out her future beyond the halls of McKinley.</p>
<p> <i>“Growing up and moving on doesn’t have to mean growing apart.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Built to Last

**Author's Note:**

  * For [themostrandomfandom](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=themostrandomfandom).



> AU (ish). Follows established canon up until 4x03, but also uses elements from 4x04. Set sometime between 4x07 and 4x08. References characters from the Louisville Universe. Inspired by the Jamie Woon song [‘Spiral'](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iVrWlSyxvjQ).Thank you to [@cargoes](http://cargoes.tumblr.com/) for her beta skills and cheerleading.

***

Since she left for Louisville, she feels weird just letting herself into Brittany’s house. It feels like she’s intruding, because it’s not the same now she doesn’t live a few blocks away and everything feels sort of awkward when they invite her for dinner or when Brittany wants her to stay over, and she has no real idea why. It’s stupid, she has a key and all; Brittany’s parents gave it to her last summer because they were sick of Brittany losing hers and then the spare more times than they care to mention. It felt like a much bigger thing when Meg called her into the kitchen and pressed the key into her hands. It meant she was part of something. She was part of Brittany’s family in a real and concrete way, quite different from just being the best friend who they’d taken under their wing. She wasn’t a surrogate Pierce anymore, she felt like a real one. They’d accepted her, but more than that, they’d accepted her and Brittany officially. 

She rings the bell twice, waiting between out of politeness, while checking her reflection in the glass to see if she looks OK, fixing her hair and her lipstick just in case. She wants to look her best, and definitely _not_ like someone who pulled an all-nighter to finish a paper and then drove for hours on end. Granted, Brittany’s seen her in just about every state – including looking like one of the undead after her summer surgery – but it’s nice to remind her she has an extremely hot girlfriend from time to time, who has really good taste in dresses. 

It’s been at least five minutes, and nothing. Not a Pierce in sight. Brittany knows she’s coming, they’ve been in contact off and on all the way from Louisville, the excitement in Brittany’s voice getting more and more evident the closer she got. By now, Brittany’s little sister Chrissy has usually burst out and hugged her to death, because she’s still taking her leaving pretty bad. With their brother Justin still in rehab after he got injured in Afghanistan, Chrissy’s been clinging to them all the more. It’s been a while since she spoke to him herself, and she misses his ridiculous jokes and his incessant need to ruffle her hair like she’s still twelve. Brittany’s mom follows shortly after, bombarding her with questions – whether she’s eating or sleeping enough and not staying out too late or drinking too much – mothering her while her own is out of town. Then, Brittany’s dad would be ridiculously sweet and awkward with her, still not knowing if he should hug her or not after all this time. Finally, after that whirlwind of attention; it’s Brittany’s turn. She always hugs her, squeezing tight, the model of restraint when they kiss. The glint in her eye says she’ll make up for it later. As sad as it sounds, she’d even take a surly welcome nod from her little brother Nick right now, barely taking his eyes off the TV screen, Xbox controller still in hand. 

Her heart speeds in her chest, giddy, excited, and nervous all at once. The four hour drive has done nothing to dull her anticipation. They’ve got it down now, this whole long distance thing, they’re making it work and giving it every damn thing they have. The back and forth is stressful, painful, and doing nothing for carbon emissions – the gas money she’s pouring into her car is ridiculous, and seriously eating into their New York fund – but it’s worth it. It’s worth it just to see the look on Brittany’s face, lit up with a huge smile. She’d pretty much go to the ends of the Earth just for that. The thought of it alone is why she bolts from her last class across campus as fast as her legs can carry her on Friday afternoons, running around her dorm and packing like crazy, trying not to look the rudest person on the planet to everyone on the squad, on her floor or her roommate Nicole when she barely has time to blurt out a decent goodbye. 

Her schedule’s been sucky lately. Her class load is still too damn heavy, and she’s been on the verge of tears sometimes because it’s just too much. Game days are simultaneously the best and worst thing ever. They’re fun, and it’s awesome, but they keep her apart from Brittany longer than she can bear. Skype, phone calls, texts (sexts sometimes, when Brittany’s in that deliciously naughty mood and she’s craving a distraction), and photos just don’t cut it sometimes. She needs the real thing. She needs to hear Brittany’s voice and laugh in real time. She needs to see her smile. She needs the feeling of Brittany’s arms around her, body against hers, lips on hers. Especially when Nicole has her boyfriend Garrett over, and even though she tries not to throw it in her face, there’s only so many times she can walk in on them or hear them having sex and not be a) really fucking annoyed or b) jealous, and wondering if it’s possible to die from sexual frustration. 

She’s still so ridiculously desperate to see Brittany and look at her and kiss every inch of her to check nothing’s changed that it’s kind of pathetic, and if she was watching anyone else behaving like she does, she’d think it was the lamest thing ever. Nicole and everyone else must be sick of her whining by now, but she can’t help it. Brittany’s always been within arm’s reach for so long that having her much further away than that really, really hurts. 

It’s been too long since she could get back home. She needs this weekend with Brittany, she _really_ needs it. If you’d asked her before now, she wouldn’t have described Lima that way, since she’s spent most of her life plotting how to get the hell out to somewhere bigger, better, and full of less bigoted assholes – somewhere where she and Brittany can be together and do what the hell they want to – but it’s become that, because it’s where Brittany is, and Brittany will always be home. 

Just seeing her is enough, but what they have planned is way bigger and better than doing her mountain of laundry or cuddle time on the huge couch in the lounge room. This weekend is devoted to all things Tisch. Deadlines are looming and Brittany’s starting to panic, half talking herself out of it, afraid that history will repeat itself. It’s needless because Brittany’s amazing. Anyone with two working eyes and even the most basic grasp of dance technique can see she’s more than capable of meeting their standards. She tells Brittany so at every opportunity, because she wants her to get the confidence and belief she had in herself back. 

Brittany has heart set on going now her grades are up, and the idea of them living together in their own apartment in New York has become everything – the gold at the end of their rainbow. The promise of it is all that gets her through the week sometimes, because it’s getting harder to imagine how she’ll make it through to December so she doesn’t lose her credit or have her parents be pissed at her forever for dropping out – it’s meant to be an ‘if’ but it feels more like a ‘when.’ New York is the only thing that cheers Brittany up when things get really bad and everything’s just too much and Louisville feels like it’s on another continent. If she hadn’t taken so long, and been so afraid or so very concerned with what everyone else thought of her, they could’ve had more time together at school to do all that cute coupley shit that other people take for granted. It feels like they’ve missed out on so much and barely had time to be together before life saw to it they were ripped apart again. 

*** 

She lets herself in at last, because she’s suddenly self-conscious about standing on the porch and looking like a complete fucking loser. That, and the fact she can literally feel Mrs Zallinsky’s eyes boring a hole into the back of her head, even though she’s on the other side of the street. For the longest time, she was sure that crazy old bitch was going to rat them out to Brittany’s parents because she always used to watch them when they’d sneak kisses on the porch after she dropped Brittany off from dates that weren’t dates. When the dates became actual dates and she gave up caring who saw her with her tongue stuck down Brittany’s throat, she’d try to up the ante and see how much it would take for her to come charging across the street on her little motorised scooter and tell them what ‘sinful young women’ they were. She’s kind of disappointed they’re yet to pull it off. 

“Britt,” she calls, as she steps inside. 

Nothing. 

Out of sheer habit, she unzips her boots and leaves them by the door, so she’s just left in her bare feet, because she’s terrified of marking the Pierces mahogany flooring. Manners aside, it sucks, because they’re her favourite – a blow-out purchase in Marc Jacobs when they were in New York for Nationals – and they give her height leverage with Brittany she doesn’t get too often. 

“Britt-Britt?” she calls a little louder, starting to look around, craning to see if she can make out any signs of life. 

The house is, surprisingly, empty. Utterly bereft of the Pierce chaos she’s come to embrace. No Nick, glued to the sofa. No Meg in the kitchen, beckoning her for a catch-up talk. No Chrissy trying her damndest to beat Brittany at Dance Central, which is pretty much impossible – she and Quinn have tried. No Jack in the yard fighting with the lawnmower. The first few times she came here when she and Brittany were in middle school, it used to freak her out, all that noise and competing attention, because her family doesn’t behave like Brittany’s, but now she loves it. Mostly because it’s how she imagines her and Brittany’s house might be, if they ever get that far. It’s a big thought right now, but it’s the kind of stuff they like to talk about sometimes when they’re feeling wistful, and it makes the distance between Lima and Louisville feel that much smaller. 

Brittany’s taught her a lot of things over the years, stuff that can’t be found in classrooms or textbooks because she’s smarter than that basic stuff they get force fed. It's only now, when they're not together all the time, that she's realizing the value of it all. It’s syrupy-sweet, Lifetime movie shit, but she knows what love is supposed to feel like and what a family really is. 

Her parents divorce saw her own family split straight down the middle. On one side was her father, Salvatore, and Raphael, while she was left on the other, with her mother and Matteo. She wouldn’t change how the draw went, because now she’s got nothing but contempt for her father and the evil bitch that’s her so-called stepmother, but she misses those early years when they were all together. Ever since it was finalised, they’ve pretty much been strangers. She was happy being the daddy’s girl with money on tap, able to get anything with a bat of her lashes, until she met Jack Pierce and found out what fathers were _actually_ meant to do. Once the battlelines were drawn, they never got scrubbed out. Too much time has passed for things to change. 

She stalls by the stairs, debating calling Brittany again, because this is getting a little too creepy for her liking, when suddenly, familiar music drifts up from the basement, something classical that she feels like she’s heard a million times before, but can’t name. Brittany’s den-turned-studio is down there, all decked by her dad to give them somewhere to hang out when it wasn’t cool or remotely safe to play in the street anymore. 

Some of her best memories are of dancing in that basement. When they were younger, they’d make up silly little dance routines and sing into their hairbrushes, pretending they were Spice Girls or Destiny’s Child. When they got older, and Brittany got really good and really serious about dance, taking even more classes than she did, she’d just sit there, cross-legged on the floor, sitting next to the stereo so she could re-cue the music when Brittany needed her to or get her water, juice, or anything else she could possibly want from upstairs. It didn’t matter they were stuck inside when everyone else was at parties, and it was way too hot even with the air con and all the windows open, she’d sit there awestruck, watching for hours, ignoring her cell every time it made a noise. Brittany had become someone else without her notice; someone graceful and beautiful and she didn’t dare tear her eyes away. 

*** 

Now she’s down here, hovering over the threshold of the den and she can practically feel that music reverberating right through her, she makes that final connection. It’s Camille Saint-Saëns’ ‘The Swan.’ Brittany uses it when she has to work on her technique because she loathes it. Not because she doesn’t know the steps, because Brittany’s head’s encyclopaedic when it comes to this, but because she has to be perfect. It stifles her in every sense. The only way she can get through it is with this music, because it’s the same piece Meg used to love to dance to when she was Brittany’s age. Back when she was still Megan Connelly from Pasadena, before New York City ballet, before Paris, and before the horrendous injury that ended it all. She’s seen the evidence of where Brittany’s extraordinary talent comes from on jittery VHS transfers. She figures it makes Brittany feel closer to her mom that way, like she might be able to carry on where Meg left off, if she can work hard enough. 

Brittany looks so like her sometimes, but especially when she dances. 

Maybe it’s because she doesn’t see her every day like she used to, but she swears Brittany gets more beautiful every time she sees her, and she actually has to remind herself that when she wants to, she can walk in and actually touch her instead of meeting with the glass of a computer of a screen. Brittany’s temptingly close, face devoid of make-up, barefoot with her hair up in a messy bun, wearing a plain tank and sweatpants. As far as she’s concerned, it beats any supposed supermodel she’s ever seen. She falls back against the doorframe, transfixed, altogether too spellbound to announce herself, just like when she was a kid. It’s funny what she’s picked up over the years, just from watching Brittany and hanging out with her while _So You Think You Can Dance_ or _Dancing with the Stars_ is on. She wouldn’t call herself an expert or anything, but she definitely has a sense of what Brittany’s striving for, recognising the changes of position as Brittany goes from one to the next; French vocabulary popping in her head automatically – développés, temps levés, grand jetés – without really thinking. 

The piece stops, and Brittany spins slow out of a pirouette to face her, breathing out long and hard, eyes fixed on the floor. Still she says nothing, pursing her lips closed, and it takes everything she has stay that way before Brittany lifts her head. 

“Since when do you start without me, huh?” she says, feigning annoyance, arms folded. 

The second they make eye contact, every hint of worry and frustration disappears from Brittany’s features, and she smiles _that_ smile. Nothing else matters once she can see that. 

“Santana!” Brittany exclaims, in an elongated screech of delight. 

Then, before she can so much as get another word out, Brittany’s running towards her, pulling her into a hug, lifting her clear off the ground. “You’re here! You’re here!” 

“Sure am, B,” she replies, mostly into Brittany’s hair, pressing a kiss to her temple and then her lips, careful and reverent, thumb brushing against Brittany’s cheek. 

“Oh, I’m all gross and sweaty!” Brittany says, suddenly, dropping her to the ground again. “Sorry,” she adds, pushing the hair from her eyes and stepping back to look at her, like she’s still trying to figure out if this is real or not. 

Santana lets out a laugh. “I don’t care!” 

Brittany’s hardly drenched, just a little flushed, and honestly, it’s kind of sexy. 

Out of habit, she reaches over for the bottle of water sitting on the table next to Brittany’s video camera, iPod dock, fruit, and energy bars – Meg’s set things up saving her the job – uncapping and handing it to her. Brittany’s good with looking after herself; that whole ‘body as a temple thing,’ but she knows it sometimes slides when Brittany’s focussed on other things. 

“Drink baby, you don’t want to get dehydrated.” 

Brittany’s looks almost bashful when she takes it from her, and their fingertips brush unnecessarily. The feeling she gets from it is a sure sign they’ve been apart for _way_ too long. 

“Did I ruin your dress?” 

“No, it’s fine,” she says, with a small smile. “You like it?” she does spin for no real reason and Brittany giggles. “I got it just for you.” 

It’s ridiculous how such tiny things can make her feel so content, but they do. She knows that Brittany wouldn’t care if she wore a garbage bag for a dress, all the fashion stuff she and Kurt are obsessed with doesn’t really register for her, but still, she likes to make the effort for her. It’s nice having someone to dress up for. 

Brittany throws her a look that says ‘is that even a question?’ as she drinks greedily, downing almost half the bottle in one go. 

“You look super hot,” Brittany clarifies, licking her lips and nodding for good measure. 

“C’mere,” she drawls, beckoning Brittany with a come-hither glance and a wag of her finger. That little welcome kiss wasn’t nearly enough. 

Brittany’s arms wrap around her waist and then she reaches up on her tiptoes, pressing a kiss to her lips. Out of everything, she misses kissing her the most, and she just wants to have that for a minute before they let the real world creep back in. Brittany pulls her closer, and deepens it her deliciously lazy Brittany way, with teasing sweeps of her tongue, and she lets out an embarrassing groan in response, pulling away from her reluctantly. 

“I missed you, honey. So bad,” Brittany murmurs, low and kind of desperate. 

Her eyes flutter closed, and she swallows hard, because things are progressing rather more _differently_ to what they’ve been planning over the last week. It’d be really nice to just fall into bed right now, and spend the rest of the day there. She’s been having these ridiculously lurid sex dreams lately that leave her aching for Brittany to the point she can’t focus on anything else. Unfortunately, they don’t have that luxury quite yet. 

“We should …” she says, tailing off before she says ‘stop’ because she really, really wants to do the opposite. There’s a couch across the other end of the basement where the Home Cinema’s setup, and they could totally go at it right there. It wouldn’t be the first time. 

“Yeah …” Brittany replies, sad and resigned, pecking her on the cheek anyway before goes back to the middle of the room. “I’m glad you’re here.” 

“Me too,” she answers, even though it’s kind of redundant. 

She feels guilty, because they’ve both been working so hard. There was a time, not so long ago, where she would’ve let Brittany carry her upstairs to her bedroom, and they would’ve left thoughts of practice behind, and application forms and everything else would be cast aside. It’s a tough thing, because she doesn’t want Brittany to feel like she’s just being used for sex, reduced to little more than a booty call. They did that pick-up-put-down routine in high school, and she’s not that girl anymore. Neither is Brittany. Even so, she doesn’t want Brittany to think she’s not wanted either. She knows Brittany worries about whether she’s still good enough for her now she’s in college. It’s bullshit, of course, because there isn’t a world – a universe – where that’s remotely possible. 

*** 

Brittany starts to stretch out on the barre again, and she takes up residence in her usual spot in the corner; sitting on one of the chairs instead of the floor, legs up on the table, camera balanced in her lap ready, because Brittany’s asked her to video everything so she can use it to work from. She knows Brittany’s more than capable of setting the video up herself, she has her own vlog for God’s sake, so in theory, she doesn’t really need her, but in practice, it’s painfully obvious she’s needed. 

“Where is everyone, anyway? Not that I don’t like being alone with my girl.” 

She cringes a little at that, because _God_ that was borderline cheesy, but Brittany doesn’t seem to mind, gazing at her adoringly. 

“You miss them?” Brittany turns fully, dropping her leg down. 

Brittany could stay there, of course, they’ve had lengthy conversations sat together on the floor with her helping to hold stretches and splits to improve Brittany’s flexibility. 

“They’re my favourite people,” she shrugs. “After you, of course.” 

“You’re so sweet,” Brittany’s looking at her in that same way again, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, trying not to stay still for too long. 

She doesn’t know what to do with it, feeling herself glowing with embarrassment – she _never_ blushes. Oh no. Truthfully, she expected things to be awkward, given how long they’ve been apart and what happened on her last visit, but it’s not. Being with her feels as easy and as natural as it’s always been. 

“Don’t let it get out, OK?” she replies, her mouth suddenly dry. She still gets embarrassed about saying what she feels sometimes. 

“I won’t,” Brittany chuckles. “Anyway, my mom took my sister shopping. Dad is at the car auctions with Nick. He’s getting new stock for the showroom,” Brittany shrugs, noncommittal, but she sees a little flicker of something like sadness in her eyes. 

Brittany is usually his go-to for that, what with her magpie complex, drawn to anything shiny and expensive, just like she is. Jack says Brittany has a good eye, and he’s not wrong. She’s scored some seriously hot wheels thanks to her. Though it’s not very cool to say you like hanging out with your girlfriend’s parents, she does. She also still really likes referring to Brittany as her girlfriend. 

“I think they wanted to give us space and stuff so I could practice.” 

“And then you asked me to visit so I’d do nothing but distract you!” she’s joking, of course, but Brittany takes her seriously. 

“No, no,” Brittany shakes her head vehemently. I wanted you to come …” she pauses, frustrated, as if she’s struggling to find the right words. “I needed you to come, it’s more than that –” 

She puts the camera down, moving toward Brittany immediately, suddenly noticing how much distance has opened up between them. 

“Britt,” she cuts in quickly, “I was just … kidding. I’ve been thinking about you all week. Every second. Like always.” 

It dawns on her quickly that something bigger is about to occur, and it makes her uneasy. She takes both of Brittany’s hands in hers, needing to anchor, to comfort. She’s felt like this, and she’s seen Brittany like this before, recently enough for it to be painful, and she steels herself, bracing for impact. Brittany swallows, and she sees a rare flash of fear in her eyes, realising that maybe things aren’t quite right between them, after all. 

The fact they’re doing this in front of a huge mirror is suddenly really freaking her the fuck out, and she wants to pull Brittany behind the curtains – cloak themselves inside like they do when it’s stormy out and Chrissy gets scared but they still want to watch. They haven’t really had a chance for deep and meaningful conversation since the last time she drove down, because of how busy they’ve both been, and she didn’t really feel like baring her soul with Nicole eavesdropping. Nicole doesn’t care about her being a lesbian – she lied through her teeth on the application form about almost everything, so she’s amazed she got put with someone she actually gets along with – and she won’t make fun. In fact, she thinks they’re the cutest thing ever, so she nearly had a fucking heart attack when she dared to mention that they almost, _almost_ broke up, as if her very existence hinged upon their continued relationship. 

Except, she forgot about the fact that she didn’t really let Brittany talk that time, not really, and it’s painfully obvious things are still troubling her. Difficult things. The choir room happened and singing Taylor Swift happened and then she just dropped this huge emotional bomb on her, expecting her to deal with it, just like she’s dealt with everything else. It was a shitty thing to do, even if she did it with the best of intentions. Everything came out in one huge ramble and the only time she stopped was when she ran out of breath and couldn’t see anything through her tears. It was all out there. How she loves her beyond words, and she can’t stand to see her hurting. How she knows they’ve both been beyond fucking miserable. How she really likes college mostly, but something’s just _off_ and it feels like she doesn’t really fit anywhere at all anymore, whether it’s Lima or Louisville. How she doesn’t _actually_ feel like her girlfriend at the moment because they’re in separate states. 

In the end, she couldn’t bring herself to do it; she couldn’t break Brittany’s heart again. It wasn’t like when she thought about it on the drive down, or the countless nights she’s churned things over wondering what the hell to do. She couldn’t force the words out, not with Brittany right in front of her, shaking her head more than nodding it, face streaked with tears, because she was destroying the little world they’d built together, piece-by-piece. 

So here they are, stuck in this limbo, where it’s seventy-five percent misery and twenty-five percent happiness and she’s desperate to tip the balance back in their favour. She’s determined they won’t be another casualty. Growing up and moving on doesn’t have to mean growing apart. 

“Tell me what you need to say, B. It’s OK,” she keeps her voice soft and even, stroking her thumbs against the back of Brittany’s palms, surprised at herself. 

Not so long ago, she probably would’ve bolted, she hates confrontation. Lopezes don’t do truths, they do denials. They bolster and they barricade, shutting people out; they make up fantastical lies to protect themselves and prolong the inevitable. It’s a horrible trait she shares with her father, one she’s determined not to imitate any longer. Not when Brittany’s proven how much better it is when you give and you share and you express, no matter how vulnerable it ultimately makes you. 

Brittany puffs out a breath, and then what she’s been holding back comes flooding out. “There’s so much stuff that, I need to say, and I can never find the right words, San. They don’t fit right. I feel like, if I show you … If I dance it, you’ll understand, like when you sing to me. I always understand when you sing, because it’s like your heart is beating outside your chest and everyone can see it. Does that make sense?” 

She swallows hard, her voice heavy with emotion. “Perfect sense, Britt.” 

“Promise you won’t say anything until I’m done?” Brittany asks, quiet and considered. 

“I promise,” she nods, just to reinforce it. “You ready to do this?” 

“I think so,” Brittany replies, rolling her shoulders and shaking out obvious tension that’s built up. “Can you turn on the music and record when I tell you?” 

“Sure,” she replies, not sure what to expect, studying Brittany carefully. 

*** 

Silence engulfs the room and she watches Brittany tense immediately. For once, she doesn’t know what to say that might calm her without sounding condescending, and that’s the last thing Brittany needs. This isn’t about whether she can pull off technique or choreography, it’s about whether she can meet their standards. Whether she fails a second time. She knows that failing hurt her – more than Brittany lets on even to her – and it hangs over her like a shadow. She thinks it might always hang over her, no matter what happens next, forever blaming herself because it’ ‘ruined’ their plans. She doesn’t see it that way, it’s just been re-written a little, refined. Brittany doesn’t buy it. Not yet, but she will. Application time turned her into a crazy, stressed out mess, so having to do it twice over, terrified to hope again just in case, must be even worse. 

There’s a lot to do, and that’s before they get to the written application. She only had to briefly mention that in passing on Skype, and Brittany’s would face drain of colour. The guidelines for people who have to pre-screen are engrained in her mind now, so she doesn’t need to look at it anymore. They’re using them to help her structure her training and the routines she’s taking to her audition in March. She’s hoping that by then, she’ll have bit the bullet and left Louisville. That way, Brittany’s trip will be more like a dry run for, well, the next couple of years. 

“Sorry if this is boring. I haven’t had as much time to practice, because of school, so I need to work on it a little bit.” 

“It’s OK. I know. Watching you dance will _never_ be boring,” she replies, sweetly. “I could watch you forever.” 

Brittany blushes, shaking her head, disbelieving. 

“If I don’t get this right,” Brittany continues with a sigh, “you won’t be watching me dance anywhere but this basement.” 

At the sight of her so utterly defeated, she leans forward, “Hey, hey, you will,” she assures, holding Brittany’s gaze. “You will.” 

Brittany’s mouth curves reluctantly into a smile. “Just the instrumental, OK? I don’t think the final thing is ready.” 

She nods, playing with the camera to give her time to settle; getting it into focus and playing with the zoom so it’s close enough to pick up details, but not so close that it’s useless. A lot of their memories are caught in this camera, some by design like bootlegs of their Nationals performances or Cheerios competitions, but most are by accident. Happy accidents, like the times Brittany took to filming her during the summer when she was rather more reluctant to be involved; sleepy with her hair sticking out at all angles with Brittany standing over her on the bed, asking her questions, completely ignoring her pleas to stop and pulling the sheets off of her until she gave in, and she _always_ gives in where Brittany’s concerned. She might only have one Achilles Heel, but it’s a damn pretty one. That summer seems a long time ago now. Golden, almost, because it passed so quickly. 

“B?” she calls, and Brittany’s head snaps up. 

A nervous “Yeah?” comes in reply. 

She raises the camera, zooming in on Brittany’s face. “You need an incentive?” 

“Like what?” Brittany’s brows furrow adorably in confusion, and she’s momentarily distracted by how pretty Brittany looks on screen. 

“Like …” she stalls, purposefully playful, because she wants to make her feel better. Somehow. “For every step you get right, you get one kiss.” A familiar smirk spreads across Brittany’s features, and suddenly, her Brittany’s back again. “To be cashed in at your leisure ...” she continues, low and deliberately teasing. 

“Now?” Brittany asks, interest piqued. 

She lowers the camera, letting out a throaty laugh. “No, not now. When we’re done, OK? A reward.” 

“Real Sweet Lady kisses on the couch like we used to?” Brittany asks, clearly considering. 

“Of course!” Wherever you want. However you want ‘em,” she winks for good measure and she sees a familiar glimmer of mischief in her eyes. 

“Mouse kisses are definitely off the menu,” Brittany announces, firm. “I hope.” 

“Oh,” she says, tilting her head. “You’re adorable, you know that? I love you, B.” 

Brittany’s face lights up at that, like hearing it is still a surprise to her, and she realises how much she’s missed seeing that. Funny, how easily those three words slip out now, when once they used to send her into a debilitating panic, stuck in her throat until they gradually worked their way to the rest on the tip of her tongue. Brittany never needed to hear them to know it was true, but she likes saying it anyway. 

“I choreographed this for you,” Brittany says, simply. “I think it’ll say what I can’t.” 

Even at this, Santana’s touched. She smiles, pouting her lips in lieu of a kiss. It’s a huge thing. This isn’t just for fun, like when they were kids. This means everything to her. It means everything to both of them. 

Brittany gives a little nod, the signal for her to re-cue the music, making sure its set to repeat so Brittany can keep going as long as she wants to. She hasn’t heard it before; electro, but with acoustic notes. It immediately clicks why Brittany chose it – the perfect middle ground between the contemporary and lyrical styles she likes to play with and blend, with just the merest hint of the hip-hop she’s so good at. Brittany takes a long breath, and she sees the switch happen: the change from her Brittany, to dancer Brittany, ready and utterly centred. It’s a beautiful thing. Between one bat of Brittany’s lashes and the next, she comes alive. 

***

She’s not sure how long they’ve been in there, holed up, working away. Well, Brittany’s working, and she’s just tracking her movements with the camera, and that’s not really work at all. Even though her wrist is starting to ache a little from holding it steady for so long, her attention hasn’t wandered. In fact, she’s gotten more and more focussed along with Brittany. It’s kind of like magic watching it all come together. People never understand Brittany’s process, how she works things out, because she’s lead by emotion rather than logic, but now it’s as clear as day; she’s calm, collected and meticulous, the complete opposite to the ball quirky ball of energy she usually is. 

If Brittany was allowed to follow her own rules all the time, she thinks things would be a hell of a lot easier. 

She doesn’t know how, but Brittany’s getting better and better. The lines she creates are hitting higher; she's nailing the steps that little bit harder and cleaner each time. She just sits there, marvelling at the strength and the skill it takes to hold the positions, lulled by the heartbeat rhythm of the track. Except, Brittany’s not happy. She can tell by the way she’s cutting the steps into clipped little movements instead of the fluid ones they were earlier. Having watched Brittany like this for such a long time, she can tell when a break is in order, and it’s right about now, because Brittany’s getting more and more frustrated, making silly mistakes. Mistakes that could cost her more than Tisch if she’s not careful. 

“Fuck it!” Brittany yells, letting out a huge breath, hands on her hips as she paces up and down between the barre and the middle of the room. “It’s not right! It’s not good enough!” 

Brittany hardly ever swears. She’s the one with the potty mouth. She can count the number of times Brittany’s been this angry on one hand and have room to spare. The last time, she recalls, bitterly, was when she was outed by Finn. She shuts down the camera and puts it on the table.

“Baby,” she says softly as she walks toward her, careful not to startle her, because all it would take is one misstep; the slightest roll of an ankle in the wrong direction and all bets are off. Training schedule out the window. It’s the thing Brittany fears the most. “Take a break, have some water, eat a little something maybe?” 

“OK,” Brittany concedes, reluctant, a little out of breath. 

She uncaps the water again handing it to her. “Come sit with me, look at the footage.” 

Brittany settles on the floor, stretching out so her muscles don’t seize up. She pulls her back, so she can rest against her legs, passing her the camera. Brittany’s quiet for a moment concentrating and reviewing so stays silent, watching from above, as she massages Brittany’s shoulders and back as far as she can reach, working out the tight knots, stroking with her fingertips over the top of Brittany’s arms, curling around her biceps every so often, just because she can. 

“Mmm, that feels good,” Brittany murmurs, eyes fluttering closed. 

“Yeah?” she plays for innocent, but it comes out smug. She knows what buttons she’s pushing, and how many times she can push them. 

She likes doing little things like this, and it’s been a part of their routine for as long as she can remember. Her touch, no matter how light, no matter how much she reined herself in for fear of showing too much, always seems to calm Brittany. When she pushes a little harder, kneading the muscles deeper as she goes, Brittany begins to relax, arching into her touch. That is, until she spots something on the video, and she’s bolt upright again. 

“Damn. That’s not high enough, see?” she points, sighing. The leg. All wrong.” 

She follows where Brittany’s pointing to, and the extension she has is only just slightly wavering. True, Brittany’s done better, but she’s been at this for hours – it’s well after two in the afternoon, according to the clock on the wall. The routine falls apart at the exact same point each time. Only Brittany knows why, of course, but it doesn’t stop her from trying to work it out when it’s rewound and she sees it happen again. 

“Stop being so hard on yourself!” she reaches down, kissing Brittany atop the head, hugging her close from behind. “You always told me to believe in myself, and I believe in you. Britt.” 

“I know you do,” Brittany sounds tired, and thoroughly dejected. “It was meant to be perfect. You won’t be able to come in to the audition because they don’t let people in, so I wanted to show you now. It was stupid.” 

She pulls away from Brittany, surprised, because she’s never, _ever_ used that word before. Somehow it’s even worse, because she said it herself, and it hurts more than all the years spent cutting people down and getting into fights coming to Brittany’s defence when anyone so much as dared to say the same. It makes her sick to her stomach, because Brittany’s always been so positive and so unshakable in her beliefs, seeing the opposite kills her. She doesn’t like it. Not one bit. 

“Hey!” she exclaims, turning Brittany to face her. “Don’t say that!” Anger flares somewhere deep in her chest. She feels like hitting something, except she doesn’t do that anymore. It’ll have to wait until she’s back in the gym so she can take it out on one of the punch bags when she trains with Garrett. 

“It’s true,” Brittany states, matter-of-fact. 

“You listen to me, Brittany Susan Pierce!” she declares. There’s the faintest trace of a smile on Brittany’s lips at the use of her full name. “You _are_ perfect. You got this, OK?” she continues, pulling Brittany into her lap. 

It feels odd, because usually, Brittany’s the one to do that for her when were no seats left in the choir room or they were in particularly touchy-feely mode once everyone knew they were official. It used to make Brittany ridiculously happy, and she’d endure all the dopey, sickeningly sweet looks they’d get from Rachel and Quinn both for that very reason. 

“I’m scared, San,” Brittany begins, bottom lip already starting to tremble, tears dangerously close. “I’m scared I won’t be good enough, and then you’ll be in New York all alone, and I’ll still be here all alone and it’ll worse than now,” sure enough, her voice gives out, and she starts to cry. “It’ll hurt even more and I’ll miss you even more, and I can’t. I can’t,” she croaks out, shaking her head. 

“Britt-Britt,” she soothes, pulling her closer. “You're gonna nail this, OK? You hear me? You're gonna get in there, and you’re gonna be in their showcase,” she pauses to make sure that she’s still got Brittany’s full attention, waiting until she nods before continuing. “I'll come, and sit in the front row. I’m gonna clap the loudest applause humanly possible. I’d whistle, but I can’t, so maybe Quinn can do that part, hmm?” 

“Yeah … I miss being with you guys,” Brittany admits, quietly, looking down at her lap. “I miss being friends. I didn’t think I’d lose you both at once.” 

“Baby, you haven’t lost me! I’m right here.” 

“Yeah, but it’s not the same. I don’t get to be with you all the time. I know it’s selfish because you and Quinn are super smart, and you deserve it. I always thought we’d do everything together.” 

She’s got no real answer to that, because she thought that too. It was a naïve, foolish idea, she always knew that. Deep down, she’s always been the realist, the one that sees the world in a darker shade, and is a little less trusting, as a result. Seeing Brittany come to the very same conclusion, watching that fall over her features, inches away from her is horrible. 

“You deserve things too, B. I just want you to be happy,” she stops herself from saying ‘because I know you’re not really happy right now.’ They’ve already trodden that dangerous ground. 

“I’m happy with you. I’m _only_ happy with you.” 

That one near kills her, and she can tell it’s something Brittany’s been wanting to say for a long time. All she wants is reassurance, and she doesn’t know if she can give it to her. 

*** 

Everything feels so up in the air right now; like it could change in a split-second. She always thought that possibilities made life exciting, but right now, it feels beyond terrifying, especially when she thinks about throwing in the towel at Louisville. A part of her thinks that if she does it, she’ll be throwing Brittany and Coach Sylvester’s hard work back in their faces, but Brittany keeps insisting that’s not true at all, and all she wanted to do was help her. Well, now it’s her turn to do the helping. She isn’t sure of much right now beyond the fact Brittany is very much integral to the future she has mapped out for them, but she _is_ sure she wants to help Brittany get into that damn school if it kills her, because she deserves to be there and have something go right for once. If it takes every penny of her mother’s money to get them set up, and she has to ditch college altogether and work just so Brittany can go Tisch, she’ll do it. She doesn’t care. Brittany’s the centre of her world, even now, and her happiness is all that matters. 

“I know, baby. It sucks,” she says softly, nuzzling into Brittany’s neck, holding her tighter. “I wish I could snap my fingers and we could stay together. That we could be in New York right now. I’d do anything for you.” 

“That’s why I’d never make you choose, because you’d always choose me.” 

Brittany’s not saying it out of childish dependency, she’s saying it out of love. 

Coming out of anyone else’s mouth, what Brittany just said would sound incredibly conceited, but from Brittany, it just sounds like the truth. Loud and clear. The jury’s still out as to whether they made the right one, but then, she figures there’s never really been a right one to start with. The choice isn’t about New York, about Lima or Louisville, it’s about whether they stay together. Whether love is enough. 

“We’ll get there, won’t we?” Brittany asks, looking her right in the eyes. “We’ll make it to New York. We’ll get our apartment together and buy stuff from Sheets N’ Things?” 

“Yes,” she says, without hesitation, because she has to believe in something. She so wants it to be true. It feels incredibly close and so very far away all at once. “We’re gonna do it. And, we’ll go and visit whoever you want.” 

Brittany brightens immediately. “Even Rachel?” 

“Yes, _even_ Rachel,” she replies, quickly, before she regrets it, earning herself a kiss on the cheek. “Maybe stop off and rescue Quinn? Remind her the real world exists before she turns into a complete Yalie,” she adds, dryly. 

“You’re the best girlfriend ever!” Brittany declares, grinning. 

“Nah, that’s you, baby. All you.” 

“You’re biased!” Brittany smiles, genuinely, and the tight feeling she’s had in her chest all this time goes. 

“Am not!” she exclaims, mock indignant, and Brittany smiles again. “I just know talent when I see it, and it’s you.” 

Brittany’s practically glowing with embarrassment now. It’s ridiculously cute. 

“Do you mind watching one more time? With the real music? I think I’m ready.” 

This time, Brittany’s perfectly in tune with the music, not a beat out of step. 

She sinks back in her seat, mesmerised, letting it all wash over her. The hairs on the back of her neck stand, and her jaw hangs slightly slack. She’s only just able to follow along. Overwhelmed, struck by the sheer beauty of it all, because it really is beautiful. Beautiful in ways there aren’t words for. Brittany lives and breathes dancing, and the proof is here; extending from the tips of her toes to the ends of her fingers. This is beyond anything she’s ever watched Brittany perform before. It’s like every move is being drawn from the depths of her soul. Like the music possesses her, and she just has to follow. It’s complex and dazzling, and yet there’s something so raw, so pure, and so honest about it. Brittany’s laying herself bare, and open; naked in an entirely different way. She can’t fully take in the flow of one movement to the next. How spins and turns can drift into beautiful fluid shapes, and she can’t fathom how Brittany angles her body to reach. 

This is Brittany’s ‘I love you.’ 

As she moves across the floor, Brittany’s effortless and elegant one moment; fierce and powerful the next. She can’t imagine how anyone could possibly find fault with anything. 

Up until now, she’s been too engrossed in what Brittany’s doing to really listen to the guy singing on the track, registering little beyond the fact his voice is soulful and melodic, but once she concentrates, the more she hears how lost and lamenting he sounds. Speaking for Brittany, speaking about them. About who they are to each other. About who they’re becoming and what it all means. It makes her heart hurt, a bone-deep kind of pain that only Brittany seems to conjure from her. Belatedly, she realises that it means Brittany is hurting too. It’s cutting deeper than ever imagined. 

Suddenly she can’t breathe. 

At that precise moment, Brittany spins, twisting her body altogether differently, curling into a leap that reaches a height she can’t process. Then, without flourish, the move stops dead. Her heart in her throat, she lurches forward, panicked and has to remember to grip the camera and not speak because it’ll ruin it. She’s seen Brittany do it before, knowing the control it takes to pull off, but for a second, she’s always fooled; thinking it’s some horrendous mistake, forgetting entirely the spikiness that lyrical style sometimes brings. 

New tears fall, tracing over the old ones she’s shed without registering them. They’re the good kind – love, happiness, pride, and an odd sense of relief – streaking down her cheeks unhindered. She clamps a hand over her mother to deaden the sound of the whimper that escapes, but she’s not fast enough. A sob escapes, and Brittany looks up at her from her position on the floor, blinking – once, twice – and her concentration’s broken. 

She feels terrible. 

“Santana? Honey, are you OK?” Brittany rushes to her, face etched with concern, kneeling in front of her and taking the camera from her hands while the track plays on. “Don’t you like it?” 

Brittany couldn’t be more wrong if she tried. What did she ever do to deserve this kind, sweet, wonderful girl? How on Earth will she keep her? How on Earth will she survive it if somehow she can’t? She swats at her face, annoyed at herself, trying to put her feelings into words and failing miserably, mouth gaping and making vague noise until her brain catches up. Now she understands what Brittany meant. If this is how she feels all the time, no wonder she struggles with articulating it. 

They all come out in one huge mess between her sobs as she cradles Brittany’s face in her hands. “God, I loved it … You’re amazing, and it’s fucking amazing and so, so fucking beautiful … Britt, you have no idea how special you are, how talented … You’re gonna outshine them all. They’d be nuts not to let you in.” 

“Really?” 

She can’t help but laugh, because _how_ can Brittany not know? She’s glad that the camera’s recording, because Brittany will see, she’ll know how truly, truly talented she is, and so will everyone else. The proof is there, unfurling moment-by-moment, wherever she chooses to play it back. 

“I just … It was, a lot, you know? A lot to take in,” she shakes her head, because it’s still not enough. It’s nowhere near enough to explain how that moved her and how extraordinarily proud she is of her. 

“For you. Every step. I wanted to show you for the longest time,” Brittany says, softly. 

When all else fails, she does what she’s always done. She kisses her. It’s heavy somewhat graceless. Brittany gasps, clearly surprised at the fierceness, but she wants her to feel it. She wants Brittany to feel how deeply she loves her, how far that passion she stirs goes. Her feelings haven’t changed one bit since the day she _really_ saw Brittany for the first time, during their tryouts for Cheerios. Gone was that pretty but gangly and awkward girl waiting to bloom, and in her place was someone even more beautiful. Time and distance hasn’t weakened them like she feared they might, it’s made them stronger than she ever thought they could be. 

“Do these kisses count as my reward?” Brittany murmurs against her lips. 

“No. Definitely not,” she answers, capturing her lips once more, in a much softer, languid kiss to prove it. 

*** 

Since she left for New York, she’s barely had time to breathe. Months have flown by in the blink of an eye. The city makes her head spin, in a good way. She finally gets why people – OK, so why Rachel – make such a fuss about it. Part of her wondered if actually getting here, enrolling in prelaw classes at NYU, and landing herself a job waitressing to keep herself steady would take the bloom off the rose, but it hasn’t. She loves it. It’s everything she imagined and more. She feels completely settled for the first time in her life. 

Her only regret is that she didn’t do it sooner. 

Though she keeps in touch with Nicole, Garrett, and a few of the girls from the squad, her friends now mostly consist of people she’s met since she arrived. Her social circle seems oddly huge compared to what it was back in Lima. Even so, she sees Rachel and Kurt pretty regularly. Since they’ve been here much longer, they know all the great places to eat, bars to go to, and coffee shops to hang out in that are less crowded and touristy, so it’s easier to look like she’s been here for the same length of time. She manages to visit Quinn often, more often than she thought would too. Yale’s a nice break from all craziness and the rush. It’s a lovely place to visit, but she couldn’t stay there all the time; it doesn’t run at the right speed for her. Quinn seems to have found her niche at last, fully embracing college life because she’s amongst like minds. OK, so she’s wearing berets and she talks even more pretentious bullshit, but her snarky friend can still come out to play from time to time when she gets her back in New York, downtown, in this ridiculous karaoke bar called Callbacks that Rachel’s so fond of. She likes it too, but that’s mostly because everything looks nice after a few shots, and they rarely get carded because the manager wants to keep all the trade he gets from the NYADA kids rolling in. 

Now Rachel’s in her natural habitat, she’s much less annoying and a lot more entertaining – albeit in small doses – but maybe that’s more due to that Brody guy and the fact she gets laid regularly. She’s still not sure where she stands on him, but he treats Rachel like a human being, and Quinn seems to think he’s OK too, but since everyone is using their experience of pre-graduation Finn fucking Hudson as a yard stick, that’s not hard. As for Kurt, well, he’s turned into a really good friend. There are natural perks, of course, because he’s interning at Vogue and can squeeze her in to sample sales underneath the radar, but he’s good for advice too. He’s still kind of stuck on Blaine, which she would’ve deemed pathetic, but given how she’s behaved because of Brittany in the past, she’s got no place judging him. At least he’s dating now, instead of behaving like the self-righteous know-all he was in high school. That’s a sure sign they’re growing up if nothing else. 

It wasn’t always so easy though, and she thought about throwing in the towel, cutting her losses, and heading back to Lima, burying herself under her covers in her own bedroom, never to come out again. Luckily for her, Matteo came through, and stopped her from sinking without trace. For a while, she came to depend on him solely for everything. He helped her out by giving her a place to stay until she could find one of her own, got her used to the subway and swung her the job at the Caravaggio’s. He’s even talking about trying to score her one of the summer internships at the record label he works for when applications re-open. 

The apartment is small, but comfortable in its own way, and she’s adding things to it that make it seem less bare and ordinary. They’re mostly finds from random markets and thrift stores – she can’t afford to be the designer label fiend she once was. Her mother’s money is pretty much used up apart from the last few thousand dollars she keeps in the bank. It’s a contingency because she doesn’t have access to her father’s neverending line of credit anymore, not since she turned eighteen and he decided she could ‘fend for herself.’ Her mother isn’t of the same mind, and still calls her every day, whether she needs to talk or not, wiring her money when she’s in a bind (usually after visiting one of those sample sales with Kurt). Meg sends her care packages that last for months and letters that read like books, even though they could use Skype or email. If there’s ever a nuclear winter, she could hunker down for a pretty long time before needing to brave the outside world. 

It’s great, it’s wonderful to have this new life, and a solid support network, but that life would be nothing without Brittany in it to share it with. She made it here, just as they always planned. She’s happy, blissfully happy, in her element at Tisch, making friends, ranking high in her classes, getting constant praise from her teachers. Her wings, clipped for so long by circumstance, are now in full flight, and she’s relishing it. 

As soon as they walked in to the apartment, vetted by both sets of parents and Matteo, it felt like everything clicked into place. Living with Brittany somewhere that’s their own and has their name on the lease is suddenly is pretty much the best thing she never knew she wanted. The best thing she’s ever wanted, knew it – and actually got – is Brittany. New York is good for them, and they’re closer than they ever were. They do everything together outside of school. They stay up too late, sometimes drink too much and are _definitely_ too loud when they have sex, according to the amount of times the guy who lives above them bangs on the ceiling to get them to shut up. He plays dubstep and techno at obscenely loud levels at four in the morning, so she guesses they’re pretty much even. Waking up in Brittany’s arms every morning, and having no one to answer to but themselves will never get old. 

Secretly – or not so secretly – she likes doing really mundane and domesticated things with Brittany, like sorting colours and whites, ironing, and doing the dishes because they do it all together. They just work, and it’s probably nauseating to everyone else they encounter, and she’s fully aware of it, and doesn’t give a single fuck. They’ve waited so long, too long, to be this happy, and nothing and no one is going to spoil it. She has the life she’s always waned with the person she’s always wanted, and sometimes she has to pinch herself to check she isn’t dreaming. 

This is where they should’ve been all their lives. She got an inkling of that feeling when they were all here for Nationals, and the whole trip passed by in a whirlwind of singing, popsicles, hot dogs, raids on the mini-bar, and quickies in the hotel bathroom, bookended by two of the most terrifying plane journeys she’s ever been on. She’s a bad flier at the best of times, but with Brittany next to her, telling her to look out the window and flagrantly disregarding the need for a seatbelt, she’s even worse. Everything she couldn’t do then out of fear – handholding, kissing or any kind of public display of affection – they do it now, quite possibly beyond what’s socially acceptable given the looks they get sometimes, but she doesn’t let it bother her anymore. Brittany says it’s because they’re jealous, and ninety percent of the time, she’s right. The other ten percent are just morons who aren’t worth their time. 

It’s been kind of crazy lately, with finals, work, Brittany’s Tisch showcase, and trying to get everything together before Christmas so they can spend it back in Lima. Their families are going to be together for the first time. All of Brittany’s and all of hers, both halves, under one roof – her father’s house because it’s bigger. It’ll be fifteen shades of awkward, no doubt. If they’re all still talking to each other, it’ll be a Christmas miracle. If they make it to New Year’s without killing each other, it’s a good omen for world peace. She was suspicious, at first, as to why everyone was being assembled, not buying her mother’s excuse that ‘it was time’ as being anything like valid, but, in the end, valid is what it exactly feels like. They’re coming together for her and Brittany. It means something, like it’s finally registered with people other than Brittany’s family, her mother and Matteo that they’re in this for the long haul. That it isn’t just a puppy love. She loves Brittany, she’s _in_ love with her, and she knows it’s mutual. 

Only Brittany could get her out in this weather, during rush hour, fighting against cross-town traffic just to pick her up from class to they can keep their Friday date night tradition. She has the last of her latest paycheck in her purse and a gorgeous girlfriend to spend it all on. Dinner and a movie is theirs. She picks one, and Brittany picks the other. In good money weeks, she’ll take her uptown, to one of the crazy expensive places. In bad money weeks, they stay at home and order takeout or cook something with whatever they have left. Either way, they usually end up in the company of Audrey Hepburn or Marilyn Monroe, huddled up together on the couch. 

It’s times like this she wishes she’d kept her car – gas money be damned – or could at least find cab, because even in her winter coat and scarf with her favourite Marc Jacob boots on, she’s still freezing her ass off. Stupid enough to entertain wearing a dress and keep her legs bare in December. Her feet are killing her from the walk, and she can’t actually feel her fingers anymore, despite the fact she has her hands stuffed in her coat pockets. It serves her right for wanting to show off. Brittany says she’s a wuss when it comes to cold, and she should know, having suffered years worth of her whining through the depths of Ohio winters. New York seems freakishly cold though, and snow’s on the way. 

Once she gets to Broadway, she’s dying for a cigarette, if only to warm herself a little, but she holds back, mostly because she’s trying to cut down and then there’s that whole ban thing, so she’s reduced to hanging out the window of their apartment or huddling on the escapement like a leper with the other people on their floor. Brittany hates it anyway – she always has – so she has an extra incentive to quit. Brittany’s late, but she doesn’t worry too much, because she’s rarely on time for anything, and always gets caught up talking to people after class, so she kills time looking between her phone and the entrance doors, debating whether she should go inside, if only to camp out near a radiator and regain full use of her fingers. 

She’s texting Nicole back about when she and Garrett plan to visit when Brittany appears, leaping on her and almost giving her a heart attack in the process. 

“Hey sexy!” 

“Jesus Britt!” she exclaims, clutching a hand to her chest, breathing a huge sigh of relief. “Oh, and since when do red reindeer noses look sexy? I’m fucking freezing!” 

“Rudolph is cute. You’re my little Rudolph!” Brittany beams, kissing the tip of her nose. “Sorry for making you wait. It’s cold!” 

She can’t get mad at Brittany for more than ten seconds, especially not when she looks so adorable in her big coat, beanie hat, ridiculously long striped scarf and gloves. She should know, she picked them, as part of the New York Winter Survival Kit that Rachel helped her put together as a present before Brittany arrived this fall. 

“No you’re not!” she laughs. Brittany greets her that way every single time she comes to get her. “I guess I should be glad you didn’t sneak up and cover my eyes, huh?” 

“I’m just excited. I missed you all day,” Brittany pouts. 

“No, really?” she smirks, swatting Brittany playfully on the arm. 

“Funny,” Brittany shoots back, lacing their fingers together, obviously not minding the cold. 

It’s a simple thing, and she’s so used to it now, walking around with her like this, instead of just with pinkies, but still gives her a little thrill of excitement. They still link pinkies from time to time, when their movie night gets gatecrashed in favour of something scary or one of them isn’t feeling well. It’s still their way to comfort each other; their way of coping, even after all this time. 

“I try,” she grins and Brittany throws her a look. Clearly not impressed. 

“Where are we going?” Brittany asks, as they start to walk. 

“Wait and see!” she replies, firm, not willing to be drawn. 

“Give me a clue?” Brittany pleads in her soft, singsong ‘please let me get my way’ voice. 

She keeps her eyes fixed straight ahead, determined not to given in and look at her, because once she hears that voice, combined with the sight of her beautiful, now wavy blonde hair, and stares into those impossibly blue eyes, she’s dead and buried. She’d give up anything Brittany might ask her about. 

“Patience, baby. Patience. Good things come to those who wait.” 

Brittany makes a noise of descent, sighing for effect, and she expects her to pull away, but she doesn’t. 

“Santana?” Brittany coos, breath hot on her cheek. 

She stops in her tracks, because when her proper name comes out, it means one of two things: either Brittany’s done something she shouldn’t – like the time she broke the lamp in their bedroom or brought home that stray kitten-turned-surrogate child named Maurice that they’ve ended up keeping – or she wants something, really, really bad and doesn’t know how to ask for it. 

“What?” 

“Could I ...” Brittany stalls. “Could I have those kisses now? You’re really cold, they’ll warm you up,” she says, coming around to face her. “Please?” 

Her brows furrow in confusion, because Brittany never asks to kiss her, much less say please. She used to have to ask all the time, to check, to pave the way, but not anymore. The panic of being found out is long gone, and her panic about doing it at all is an even more distant memory. Then, it clicks. Brittany’s talking about the reward she laid out for her on that afternoon they spent working on her Tisch application. They’ve kissed maybe a hundred or so times since then, and she’d honestly forgotten about it. That Brittany, at her lowest ebb, struggling to carry on, is a world away from the one in front of her. 

“I think I can manage that.” she steps forward slowly, taking her time on purpose. “Since you asked so nicely.” 

She closes the gap between them, cradling Brittany’s face in her hands, looking at her for what feels like a long time, before she finally brushes her lips against Brittany’s. It’s barely anything at all to begin with, just tiny little mouse kisses, and then she builds things slowly, like they have all the time in the world. As the kiss deepens, feeling Brittany’s arm slide around her waist, and then there’s a hand in her hair, tugging ever so slightly, she forgets they’re standing on a busy street, altogether lost in the moment, revelling in the fact she’s kissing her. This is a year overdue on Brittany’s time, and years too late on her own. She dreamed of this, during Nationals, the depth of her craving turned her hands clammy, left a bitter taste on her tongue for months, and made her chest ache any time she thought of it. 

It ached all the more later, for everything that was left unfulfilled. For the opportunities she wasted, fearing she’d never have them within her grasp again. 

She holds on to Brittany tighter now, threading her arms around Brittany’s neck, determined not to let this moment pass her by. Sliding her tongue in Brittany’s waiting mouth, she gets her own reward in the form of a soft sound from Brittany’s throat; half whimper, half gasp, clearly not expecting it. They never kiss like this in public. This is for the confines of their bedroom, and she’s sure she hears a wolf whistle or two, but she doesn’t care. In the back of her mind, she knows that Brittany’s counting out what she hopes she deserves, and that’s reason enough to keep going, even though she knows there’s not time enough to express that.


End file.
